


The Duplicity of Stolen Things

by tandemonium



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Discovery, M/M, Realization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 21:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tandemonium/pseuds/tandemonium
Summary: Napoleon knows Illya. Knows more than what was in the files and knows more than what Illya thinks he shows. Beneath the steely exterior, he is a sentimental fool and while Illya hides it well it hints at other hidden layers beneath the cold pale surface





	The Duplicity of Stolen Things

Napoleon pulls his gun out of the holster under his jacket. The door is closed but he knows the lock has been picked. He steps into his apartment, finger poised on the trigger.

“Peril?”

Illya is seated at the table, back upright, rigid with tension, his finger ticking.

“You picked the lock?” Napoleon asks, feeling an obscure sense of pride for his partner.

“You have my wallet!” Illya replies.

Napoleon slips the gun back into the holster and peels off his jacket. “I don’t know what you’re talking about” he lies, removing his jacket and turning towards the drinks cabinet.

“You took my wallet Cowboy, don’t play with me” there is an edge to Illya’s tone. It’s not merely the usual exasperation or impatience, which Solo enjoys provoking from him; it’s something darker and deeper. It unnerves Solo a little but not enough to give up. 

“No offense Peril but cheap Russian leather is not to my taste. Now had it been a Brioni…”

He’s witnessed Illya’s expeditious moves before, in Berlin and many times since. Yet he’s still surprised to find himself suddenly pinned to the counter. Perhaps even more surprising is the trace of vulnerability behind those steely blue eyes.

“I will snap your neck like a twig,” Illya snarls. Solo ignores the threat and presses himself against Illya before the Russian promptly takes a step back.

“You are quite welcome to search my person” he holds out his arms, urging Illya to go ahead and do it so he can feel those big hands on his body, searching, roaming… if Illya finds the wallet tucked into his back pocket then it’s a win for both of them.

Disappointingly, Illya refuses to rise to the bait. 

Solo had snagged the wallet not because he has sticky fingers, which he does, but because it amuses him to toy with the Russian. But as Illya stalks out of the apartment, his gravity reducing the pleasure of the game, Solo is left puzzled by the severity of his reaction. 

He knows Illya. Knows more than what was in the files and knows more than what Illya thinks he shows. Beneath the steely exterior, he is a sentimental fool and while Illya hides it well it hints at other hidden layers beneath the cold pale surface. Napoleon contemplates this often and the desire to explore these depths drives his actions at the most inopportune of times. Reaching for a watch instead of a gun, for example. Or more ominously, putting himself in harms way, so that Illya could rescue and chastise him, and in doing so, reveal a caring side that is at other times inaccessible.

Yes, Illya is secretly sentimental, but its over the silliest things. Or maybe Solo just doesn’t understand such attachments. He is a lover of shiny new things, expensive things. He likes to possess. Usually you have to throw out the old to make room for a new obsession, stolen or bought. Where would he keep everything anyway?

Illya is different. He knows about Illya’s childhood and knows about the time after his father was taken away. Illya has less but it means more. His father’s watch, for example, cheap and unstylish as it was, kept him tethered, like an anchor in stormy seas. Solo wasn’t sure whether it was a reminder of better times or a reminder of his father’s fate. Whatever the reason, the Russian valued it as much as, if not more, than his life. 

Solo won’t admit it out loud but he thinks Illya is to him what that watch is to Illya. 

 

There was nothing of note in the Russian’s wallet. A couple of bills that’s all. Solo can’t understand why he got so agitated and frenetic over it. He turns the cheap leather upside down, flips it inside out. Nothing - exactly as Solo thought, sentimental over silly things. Then he notices a couple of stitches in the inside flap are undone. He slips his index finger inside and lifts the flap, retrieving a Polaroid he finds there. He turns it around. It’s a photograph of him, smiling toothily while shielding the sun from his eyes.

Gaby took the photograph at the end of their second mission, their first as official U.N.C.L.E agents, on a beach in Sicily. It was a good photograph and the narcissist in him wanted to keep it but Gaby had told him she’d lost it.

To find it in Illya’s wallet, in a secret compartment no less.

Solo’s head is spinning with the significance of the discovery. He pours himself some scotch before taking a seat at the table and slipping the photograph back into the hidden pocket. He does this a few times and decides it’s quite clever the access is relatively easy but only if you know to look. Only a trained eye would notice – a thief’s eye.

Napoleon tries to pay no mind to the quickening of his pulse or the heat that’s starting to colour his skin. Excitement and disbelief combine inside his gut. He accepted his attraction to his brooding partner and resigned himself to feeding on scraps – the occasional touch or a rare but splendid smile solely for him. 

He tried to stop wanting what he wanted but it’s ridiculous how the brain will learn while the heart continues to yearn. Napoleon is by no means a fatalist, but he always thought these momentary pleasures would cease sooner or later.

And now, to have this hope, this opportunity… 

-

Illya feels suffocated by the throngs of people, hedonists, gyrating against one another in the overcrowded bar. The music and laughter is just a cacophony of noise, which worsens his mood. This was a bad idea, stumbling into the bar looking for… looking for what? A distraction? Perhaps the warm body of a woman who might bring him in from the cold… But Illya is unlike his partner – he is not suave or charming. He does not understand seduction. Besides, a fleeting and probably forgettable encounter won’t change anything.

He has been weak. 

Gaby showed him the Polaroids she had taken of them when they celebrated a successful mission of extraction in Syracuse. 

Every time Gaby shoved a camera in their faces, Illya had scowled and Solo had smiled. 

Every picture of Solo was worthy of contemplation, if not for his smile then for the mirth in those disturbingly captivating eyes. Despite what he wanted everyone to think, Ilya appreciated beauty and this one photograph in particular… Something came apart inside him when he saw it, the seductive beauty captured into permanence. Never before had he felt the overwhelming urge to possess something as much as he did in that moment. In the KGB he was trained to suppress his emotions, matters of state above matters of the heart. He lived by this. Until U.N.C.L.E… Until Napoleon… His partner was changing him, making him weak.

With quick fingers that Napoleon himself would have been proud of, he took the photograph. And just like that, he was a thief!

He permitted himself to stare at the photograph because it wasn’t possible to stare at Napoleon in such a way, uninterrupted and consuming. Often, in the dim light of his room, when his guard was down and his heart was open - sometimes for a few minutes but usually for hours - he would replay his interactions with Solo through the day and muse on what he would have said and done had he been the master of his own life. 

It was indulgent and he should have known better.

He swirls the clear liquid in the glass and drinks, taking pleasure from the burn in his throat. 

The bartender places another glass in front of him and Illya seizes it and drinks, his movements almost mechanical. Drink. Burn. Repeat

The relief is momentary and fails to subdue the growing resentment he feels towards himself for his weakness and depravity, for allowing Napoleon to consume him like this. How could he let this happen?

He feels like he is standing on a sheet of ice on the Moskva River, waiting for it to crack beneath his feet. 

-  
When Illya finds his way back to his apartment Napoleon is leaning against his door, facing away from him. His footsteps falter and despite everything he’s felt and thought in the preceding few hours, he feels a warm current run through his body. 

Illya knows nothing of love but thinks this might be it.

Or maybe it’s just the Vodka.

Suddenly Napoleon turns around, as if sensing his presence. “There you are!” he smiles. It’s a warm smile, soft around the edges. There isn’t any hint of the disgust, the cruelty Illya expected to see. But instead of being relieved, he feels more ashamed. A part of him considers that perhaps Napoleon has not seen the photograph, but no, Illya is not naïve or cowardly enough to believe that.

“What do you want?” he mumbles, pushing past his partner to open the door. Napoleon follows him inside and heads straight for the drinks cabinet. “You came to drink?”

Napoleon throws back a shot of Vodka and Illya recognizes the tension in his shoulders, the quick adjustment of his cufflinks, a nervous gesture Illya has witnessed on rare occasions during particularly unpredictable missions. 

“I came to talk,” Solo replies.

Illya closes his eyes, makes a feeble attempt at composing himself, “there is nothing to say. You are thief” 

“Well that’s a well known fact. But appears that you are also a thief.” The lightness of Solo’s tone is disorientating. Illya glowers at him, but Napoleon continues, “You stole a photograph from Ms Teller’s private collection.” He holds out the wallet.

Illya stares at the wallet. A few silent minutes pass during which he urges his hands to stop trembling, and then he reaches out and takes the wallet without a word. He has the urge to check for the photograph but feels that would be an admission of guilt. 

“I once stole a Renoir from a corrupt politician in Vienna” Napoleon begins, “It wasn’t his best work by any means, but there was something about the way the play of light brought the grassy meadows alive. Art does that you see, it captures something elusive.” 

“Does not justify stealing.” 

Napoleon sighs and pulls the Polaroid from his pocket. Something twists inside Illya’s chest, razor sharp – the moment has come, he thinks, but he is not prepared for it. He wants to deny it and lash out. He wants to plead and repent. 

“The point, Peril, is that a photograph, unlike a work of art, only captures what is in front of you. That’s its purpose.” He steps forward, softens his voice when Illya takes a step. “If the object is in front of you, then the photograph is of no use.” He is smiling – seductive and suggestive.

Illya struggles with the implications of Solo’s words. He has convinced himself of the impossibility of what he wants, the suggestion that there might be hope… No! It’s a foolish thought. But as he stares blankly into Solo’s eyes, he sees them devoid of the hostility he expects to see. 

Suddenly, Solo’s hands are holding Illya’s face and he blinks rapidly in surprise and then Napoleon’s lips are pressing against his, demanding and captivating all at once. He tastes scotch and something more delicious. He feels unheard of sensations all the way down to his toes. Napoleon pulls at him with an almost feral intensity and Illya finds himself on the brink. But then the kiss is over and Illya’s leg are refusing to prop him up any longer.

“It’s okay to feel,” Solo tells him, studying his face, recognising the conflict and turmoil twisting inside him. Solo takes hold of Illya’s hand and presses his lips to the white knuckles.

Illya’s breath catches in his throat, he shakes his head, “I don’t know how,” he admits.

Napoleon pushes him onto his back and smiles “let me show you.”

Illya has the urge to resist but then Napoleon connects their lips again and balls his fists in Illya’s shirt, holding him in place and Illya feels like the ice is cracking beneath his feet but it’s okay because Solo will keep him afloat.


End file.
